


i found god (i found him in a lover)

by kismetics



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Demon Kuroo Tetsurou, Demon Oikawa Tooru, I Tried, Kuroo Tetsurou is a Little Shit, M/M, Not Beta Read, Tengu Bokuto Koutarou, i tried making it make sense ok, makes a brief appearance at the end, this was based on a dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:08:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25430650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kismetics/pseuds/kismetics
Summary: Akaashi Keiji dreams too much. Of death, and chaos, and sadness, and grief. He accepts it, it is what it is, and it usually doesn't affect him. Until it does.Bokuto Koutarou, a Tengu, is there to remind him that he's more than a heartless bastard. He's there to remind him that love is a thing, and to never give up.(Where Keiji falls in love with Koutarou, then dreams of his death, and promises himself to not let that happen.)
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Comments: 8
Kudos: 17





	i found god (i found him in a lover)

**Author's Note:**

> read the tags pls,, i tried making this make sense but it was based on a dream,, anyways pls enjoy the angst i projected rlly hard for this

The wind roars with deafening strength, shaking the earth to its very core as Mother Nature weakly tries to stand strong against the burning of frozen tears falling from the sky that slowly but surely eat at everything it has ever created. In the midst of it all stands a small cottage, weakly protected inside the walls of a long ago forgotten village, and taking shield in the unknown shadows of it is a woman. Her too-cold hands curl around her frail body, as the breeze carries her pleas and cries up, up into the heavens, where they reach the ears of The Lord.

It answers, for once, extending a bright light none-too-gently onto her figure, almost completely unmoving with lips turning purple, limbs shaking in place from time to time. It hurts, and The Lord takes her apart, piece by piece, until nothing but a small amount of life is left. She screams and writhes, begs for her baby, but no answer is given, for The Lord does not hear the same voice twice, just like lighting doesn't fall in the same place.

Light curls around the so-called baby, embracing it, but never gently, as a mother would. It takes him without permission, slotting itself in places where it should not be. The firstborn cries, a sign of actual life. He's a boy, but he does not get time to take another deep breath, the light enters his body, covers his mouth, and he is left voiceless. Breathless.

By the end of it, he is a human no more. The Lord has already heard his voice, and the storm outside stops, but the freezing winds still protest with the sounds he was stolen.

And so, on a cold December night, in a little missing village, a blessed child is born. He is taken to somewhere else, where he can be cared for. He is left alone, because The Lord does not hear the same voice twice.

.

.

.

Akaashi Keiji dreams too much.

His first dream occurs when he's eight, holding the dead, cold body of what used to be his dog close to his chest. He doesn't weep, but during the night, when he goes to sleep, he can feel his throat closing up and his eyes burning. So he closes them, and drifts away to sleep with ease.

His mind takes him far away, out if his bed and into a cold highway, but he's not there, not in a physical or soul-like way. He's watching it all happen as one would a movie. The car crash, the screams, the begs. The woman is named something, her child is named another something. When he wakes up, he doesn't remember, but he tells his mother about it anyways, and she chalks it up to him still being shaken over his dog.

When she turns in the morning news, he's introduced to the woman in his dreams. He stares at her smiling face, the photo showed to illustrate her for the ones watching, and then compares it to the mess of limbs and organs and blood on the asphalt. Keiji doesn't mention it to anyone, the fact that he saw that woman's last moments, the fact that he heard her child's voice as it was dragged by the wind. He smelt death, and felt the caress of life as it passed him on it's way to Heaven.

Keiji dreads the night. Nothing like a childish fear, or him not being able to easily let consciousness wash away, but because the night is honest. In a world of magic, and dark magic and werewolves and vampires and demons, the night is the only honest being there is.

During the night, when the light The Lord bestowed upon him is at its weakest point, darkness wraps around him like vines. Hands creep up from his sides, not touching —never touching—, but close enough so that he knows they're there; faces move around him, frustrated eyes and infuriated smiles, as they whisper to him with hateful voices. That's how he knows that The Lord has blessed him, but it's ears are already deaf to his voice.

That's how he learns that The Lord does not hear the same voice twice.

He can't stop dreaming. Whenever he closes his eyes for more than fifteen minutes, he is rudely made aware of the fact that he's special. His dreams are crude, filled with overwhelming noise, repugnant smells and freezing bodies. But the worst thing is the feelings. Because Keiji is heartless, as if The Light, when tearing him apart to bond itself with his body, forgot to put his emotions back in place; so his brain seems to want to compensate that, making him feel more when he's dreaming. So he's frightened, devastated, revolted. But only when he dreams.

Then he wakes up with the sun rays covering his face, and light envelops him, and he doesn't feel at home, but it's something. His mother is not his mother, and his father is not his father, so The Light sometimes feels like the only thing that's truly _familiar_.

In a world of magic, Akaashi Keiji can't find his place. He's a special boy, and anyone with two grains of magic inside of them can tell— for witches, his aura is brighter than others; for werewolves, he smells like the sweetest fruit; for vampires, he has the natural perfume of a dessert, and would be more addictive than any drug were he ever tasted; for tengus, he is the personalization of purity, even when he is nothing of the likes. It works like that. Everyone notices, and even humans can sometimes tell that he has something that's not normal.

Sometimes he even gets confused with vampires, and he can kind of see it, on the days he spends looking at himself in the mirror until his face is all distorted and weird —cheeks flushed like a painted doll's, with all the saturation turned up, creating richer dark tones and brighter lights, and eyes that look teary, glossy, emotional but glass-like— because his everything compensates for what he doesn't have. Like a painting in a museum with eyes that follow you when you go up and down the hall, he's beautiful enough to intrigue people, but weird enough that no one stays around for long.

Well, no one except one person, at least.

Bokuto Koutarou, the first one to ever make him feel. _Fear,_ and _grief_ , but it's something compared to the annoying nothingness of others.

.

.

.

The rest of the lights in the house are still turned off, and it’s a miracle that he even managed to make coffee without being entirely awake, and it feels a bit eerie with just the kitchen lights on but mostly he’s just pissed off, and tired, and scared and overall just not good. At all. He could still be in bed right now. He could be asleep.

Nobody should be awake at this hour without a proper reason, but here he is, sitting in his kitchen all grouchy and tired and scared because his brain decided that 4AM was the perfect time to wake him up with another ungodly nightmare. How it even managed to make him _feel_ so deeply terrified is beyond him, and he debates calling Koutarou just to check up on him, but he knows. He knows that if he opens his mouth to acknowledge the future he saw then it will become true.

Usually, Keiji wouldn’t care about his dreams —predictions— and overall whatever they might provoke in him, although usually it’s disgust. He, as a rule, feels nothing. He swings between boredom and mild interest, with the occasional taste of insanity— that is all. No pain, no sadness, no excitement, no fear. When Tetsurou, the _tamed demon_ of Nekoma, becomes his new acquaintance, he feels something akin to relief, although he would deny it, if someone asked. Finally there’s someone there he can talk to, who won’t mind his absence of emotion, his overall lack of reaction to death, who won’t only be there for his light, because he knows demons feel incredibly disgusted by it.

He wonders, sometimes, why Tetsurou puts up with him, when he knows he is nothing but a bother to the poor demon— can demons even be pitied? Wait, that’s offensive. Keiji should really stop listening to human’s rants, they only like vampires and werewolves because of western culture or something.

He can’t call Koutarou, not right now, because if he does he’ll end up spilling all of his worries. Instead, with trembling hands and a throbbing heart, he dials the demon’s number. He waits three turns before Tetsurou finally picks up.

“It is...” a small pause, probably so he can look at the time, then Kuroo resumes talking. “Five in the morning, dearest, please explain to me what’s going on?” he asks with a the sweetest tone of voice Keiji has ever heard him speak in, and he has the momentary need to hang up and go outside to scream. He quickly deletes that idea, though, screaming would mean attention and he does not want nor need that right now.

“As if you ever slept,” he scoffs, turning around to leave the cup with a small dose of cold coffee still inside in the sink. “Nothing, I just wanted to call you, that’s all,” he mumbles, mentally praying that Tetsurou doesn’t take it as some weird confession. God knows that _that_ would definitely wreak havoc in his already chaotic life.

“Ah, I see,” the playful tone makes a shiver run down his spine. Please no. “Someone had a nightmare and can’t talk about it. Never thought I’d see the day,” a sound of relief escapes him at that. Yes, Tetsurou wasn’t as stupid as he thought. Great.

“Someone important to me was there, and for some reason I got really… You know,” it feels weird to say, to admit out loud that he spent a good ten minutes hiding under the covers on his bed trying to go back to sleep because he was too scared of the darkness, of the looming threat that’s always _there_ , not quite visible but not invisible either.

Then he gathered up enough courage to grab his phone, turn the flashlight on and walk all the way from his bedroom to the kitchen, preparing coffee after making the decision to stay awake the rest of the night. Nothing good was gonna come out of falling asleep again if he was going to just have the same nightmare —prediction, his brain corrects, and that only makes him more angry, but also kind of sad— again.

“Oh yes I know,” Tetsurou provides with a small chuckle, and Keiji is made aware of some movement on the other side of the phone call as he hears some rustling. Probably Kuroo getting up, or something. “So what?” the older man —creature? demon?— hums.

“Uh?” he blinks slowly, before lowering his face onto the cold surface of the kitchen counter, phone still held with a strong grip in his hand.

“Aren’t you going to… Do something? Try to stop it from happening?” Tetsurou explains, and the rustling comes to a stop. Keiji recognizes it as the pages of a book, just— _what_ is Kuroo reading at that time.

“I’m not even sure I can do such thing, to be honest,” it makes him feel powerless and, quite frankly, annoyed, but it's the truth. His dreams are, after all, predictions, not something that can be changed, and he's not sure this whole ' _keeping quiet about it_ ' thing even works; he just knows that the second the words explaining what happened are out of his mouth, the dream becomes reality.

“Akaashi, you’re a blessed child. Just by shutting your mouth you’re doing something to prevent the prediction from happening, but that can’t be the solution to it, right?” Tetsurou is, somehow, right, even if it pains him to admit it. Again, the demon ends up not being as dumb as he thought.

But that tone of voice he has makes him feel stupid, like a little kid being scolded. He has to regain control of the conversation, even if he _is_ , in fact, the younger of the two.

“I’ll try to do some research later,” Keiji huffs. “Don’t use that tone of voice with me,” he groans, rolling his eyes. He knows that Tetsurou thinks of himself as a 'master of provocation', or something, just because he is incredibly annoying, but sometimes he can't avoid walking right into his traps.

“Right, right, I forgot you don’t like people looking down at you,” a _giggle_ . Kuroo Tetsurou is _giggling_ , of all things, and it's all because of him.

It makes one of his eyebrows twitch.

“Shut up.”

“Are you calmer now, though?” he adapts on a more normal tone of voice now, not his usual one he uses for small banters. No, this is the voice he reserves for circumstances like this one, where he needs to be the voice of reason, when he's actually needed for something important. It makes Keiji feel important, special, and he smiles quietly to himself before answering.

Tetsurou really is a nice person, after all, even if the demon blood coursing through his veins tries to differ.

“Yes, thank you for answering,” Keiji might be a little shit, but he knows when to be grateful. He knows that were it anyone else, they probably wouldn't have answered, or just cursed him out after doing it. So yeah, he's grateful for Tetsurou, although he'd never say it out loud.

“No problem! You know I can’t resist when a cutie like you needs my—,” he hangs up before Tetsurou can finish that sentence.

Right, no. He completely hates him. One hundred percent sure. If given the chance, he would exorcise him without a doubt. But Keiji smiles, under the watchful gaze of those dark eyes noticing his every move, every twitch of his muscles, he smiles softly, overwhelmed, thinking. Then laughs to himself until he wants to cry and soon he finds that he's putting on his shoes and locking up the door to his house. And even though he usually prefers morning runs, he’s now jogging in the night, accepting the blackness outside and staying warm with his own blinding light, no feeling inside him except for the need to _run,_ to _move_ and _get far away_.

The streets are empty, sloshed with the golden hue of old cheap fluorescent light shining down the cracks on the sidewalk he steps on without a care. The streets are empty, so he puts himself there. ‘To have a thought, there must be an object—’ so he puts himself there, on his pajamas that are really just the clothes he fell asleep wearing and his sneakers. He must have been running for less than fifteen minutes, but when he checks his phone it’s been half an hour, which means it’s close to 6AM. But winter is closing in, so the day will start at seven, which means that the darkness around him will prevail for longer.

It should be enough. To have ran all the way down to the center of town and then a little more should be enough to quell down the turmoil of sensations inside of him, but it’s not. His clothes stick to his body and rub him in all the wrong ways and he really just wants to be able to sit down, take a deep breath, and calm down. But he can’t, so he keeps moving forward.

With time, there are things you learn to stop your own curse —the power running through your veins, setting your body on fire, cracking your ribs and bursting your lungs—, but most importantly, things you learn to protect yourself from others. Witches learn protection spells, werewolves learn to run away, vampires learn to fly, tengus learn to sneer and demons learn— whatever demons do. Akaashi learns the basic stuff. Don’t look down, don’t look behind you, don’t pay close attention to them, but do to your surroundings. Never tell a demon your full name, and never let a witch touch you. Carry amulets, drink holy water, pray regularly and don’t let emotions control you.

Stay calm.

He can’t stay calm.

His body keeps moving, almost on its own accord, fighting against exhaustion and the weight of his own heart to just _escape_ , from the shadows, from the monsters, from the darkness trying to slot itself inside his body, trying to push the light out and find out _what_ made him, a little bastard child born in nowhere, so especial that the Lord decided to give him a hand.

He finds himself standing in front of a library. Nothing special about the old building, except the way it’s illuminated, almost in an exaggerated way, but the very thing he needs. Light, pushing everything else away.

Light, even as much as he hates to admit it, is the cause of all his problems as much as it is pretty much the only source of comfort he has. Familiar like an old cousin who used to pick fights with you when you were kids; familiar like that one uncle who would drown you in the pool as a game whenever you visited his house.

His breathing is laboured, and he stands in front of the two wooden, old and gigantic doors to enter the building, just under the light bulb. Sweat drips down his face —and if he had a jacket on he would have taken it off—, wets the neck of his t-shirt and his back, pools down on his feet, makes him feel disgusting and cold. But he focuses of breathing. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, and he does so until his chest hurts and his throat is raw from breathing in the freezing sharp air of the night. Keiji doubles over, and it's only when he tries and fails many times to get his phone out of his back pocket that he realizes that he's shaking, and hard at that, and he wheezes out a laugh, thinking that he might be going insane. Insane with anguish, and grief and fear, and all around him monsters observe, and scream and the sounds pierce him like a whip, cutting through air, hurting in a way only noticeable hours after.

Behind him, the door opens, and he's being dragged inside the library. _A holy place_ , he notices, lit by light bulbs of course but also with candles, big and small and of all types of colors, and it doesn't matter where he looks, he finds light. The place is big, bigger than he might have thought, and before he realizes it Keiji is being violently sat on a chair. A very comfortable chair, at that, but that doesn't exclude the fact that he was shoved into it by a very distressed, very annoyed looking blond with glasses.

“ _Please_ tell me you weren't just getting possessed back there,” the blond begs, and it's only when Keiji's neck hurts when he has to look up to stare at his face that he realizes just how tall he is. Still, the man is waiting for an answer, and just basically saved his life, and even on the brink of absolutely losing his mind Keiji knows that it would be incredibly disrespectful on his part to not reply.

“I don't think so, possessive beings can't touch me,” he says matter-of-factly, because it's the truth, and one that has been known for a very long time at that. He wonders if the man is a young witch, because he looks smart and the magic in that place feels special, but then again a _witch_ , no matter how young or inexperienced, would have noticed the light enveloping him. “Are you a witch?” he asks, because there's nothing to lose and he doesn't have the energy to keep his walls up.

He's _safe_ , he realizes. And suddenly he feels laughter bobbing up his hurt throat again, a feeling of hysteria taking over. _Well done, Keiji, you haven't died yet._

“I'm a human, Tsukishima Kei. Can't do magic, at all, but I work in here, a magic library,” he moves his hand around, idly gesturing at the humongous establishment they're in. “Are _you_ a witch?” as he asks this, Kei wanders off somewhere to the side, but Keiji can still hear his light steps, his quiet breathing, and that's good. Enough. He doesn't think he'd be able to take being alone again.

“No, my mom just prayed really hard when I was born and then I got blessed, or something,” he explains, voice trembling, broken, raw, and he can barely recognize himself. His face feels cold, even under the warming spells the library probably has —those places are built for maximum comfort, so— and he distantly thinks he's crying, still.

_Well done, Keiji, you haven't died yet._

“And may I ask what has you like this?” this time, Kei comes into vision with a blanket that he won't ask where he got from, and a box of tissues, and when he sets everything down he finishes talking and gestures at Keiji's shaking figure. That's when he realizes that Tsukishima is being careful, assessing him, being not threatening but also not friendly. Just neutral, a presence not bad but also not good; in other words, he won't kick Keiji out, but if a demon were to burst right in through the door, then he would sacrifice him without a doubt to be able to escape.

He remembers that just saying ' _a demon_ ' isn't fitting for the killer creatures that roam the night, that lurk in the darkness, because Tetsurou is a demon and he still picked up his call at four in the morning and told him to _do something_ . And, well, in hindsight it wasn't really helpful, but he got _someone_ there, for a brief moment, and he's thankful.

“Feelings— emotions, are a faraway thing for me,” he begins his explanation, clutching the blanket to his body and using the tissues to wipe the sweat off his neck and face, along with his tears. Kei looks like he couldn't care less, but is still listening in hopes of Keiji letting him know something interesting, and Keiji can do interesting alright. “Ever since I was a child, I would have close encounters with Death, I would be able to predict, hurry up and even prevent, I think, people's deaths,” and at that, Tsukishima perks up, eyeing with newfound attraction, and Akaashi wonders why. “It never affected me, like I said before, I am kind of heartless, but...” he hesitates now, but keeps going nonetheless. Now that he's slowly regaining his composure, he realizes that this is one of the best things that could have happened, this could _work in his favour_ . “I saw the death of someone precious to me, he died at the hands of a demon, and it, I believe, set off all of the emotions I hadn't been feeling during these years of my life. During my dreams, which are the way I manage to predict these deaths, I am able to become _one_ with the people dying, I feel what they feel, hear what they think. This time, though, I was feeling my own repressed emotions, or something. Hearing my own thoughts. Not pretty,” when he finishes rambling, Kei is still listening, and he's momentarily relieved that he managed to keep his attention on himself for the time being. Then he notices the small details— the tilted head and lips pressed together in a thin line, the narrowed eyes, the furrowed brows.

“Uh, that's _something_...” and it's Keiji's turn to stare, for a while, as the other man goes deep in thought, before clearing his throat to attract his attention, even though he ends up flinching from the pain.

“Something?” he repeats, all kinds of confused and, although he would try to deny it if asked, scared. It's not everyday someone with this much access to knowledge and, by default, _the_ knowledge just calls you ' _something_ '. Akaashi has been called many things during his short life —monster, creature, useless, idiot, and the newest addition to the collection: blessed—, words he never let affect him because if he does then he'll be nothing more than a blessed creature, an idiot useless monster. But never ' _something_ '.

“I've heard of people being able to predict deaths before, mister, it's fairly common...” Kei stars explaining, but something about the way he drags the last word makes Keiji still in place, and also realize that he never introduced himself. “However, never have I done so of people able to hurry those deaths up, or even stop them from happening,” he says, one finger on his chin as he stares at him, and even if he's _just_ a human, Akaashi feels like he needs to be careful around him. He's too smart for his own good. “Are you sure you can do it?”

“Yes, I'm sure. Whenever I tell someone about how or who I saw dying, it immediately happens, and when I don't talk about it then it doesn't,” Keiji shrugs, helpless. There must be some sort of logic to it, anything to explain it other than him just being very acquainted with Death. Not the act of it, but the being, and maybe that's just it. He's been surrounded by death since the very second he was born, he took his first breath at the expense of his mother's, and as punishment this is what he gets, night terrors and apathy. “My name is Akaashi Keiji,” he says as a way to change the course of the conversation, because if it keeps going down this route he might just not recover.

He's never bothered to think too much about this stuff, about his mother, has always just brushed it off, accepted the dreams and death as the reality of his life, and kept living it like that. Nothing he could do about it then, nothing he _can_ do about it now. Although foolishly, he finds himself wishing, if ever so subtly, that he never found out about the latest one— about Bokuto Koutarou's death.

Feelings, emotions, are a dangerous and often useless thing indeed.

Kei seems to catch up to his train of thought, and nods, before looking around. “I think we might have a book or two about death and predictions here,” he says, as if this entire library wasn't bigger than Keiji's house. “But it is late now— or, well, really early, Akaashi-san. Don't you have other stuff to do?” he's not wrong. Light, natural light, is seeping in through the taller windows there, and the light bulbs slowly but surely turn off. Keiji nods a few times.

“School...” he trails off, will he even make it to class in time? Does he _want_ to? Not really.

“Is your house too far? One of these doors serves as a portal to, uh, everywhere more or less, you just need to focus,” Tsukishima gestures to the entire library in general, and Akaashi can just _tell_ that he has no idea which door is the correct one. Still, he appreciates the help, and they walk around the building wrapped in a comfortable silence, testing the doors.

Eventually, one leads them straight to Keiji's room, and before he steps in, he turns around to give Kei the blanket back. Except Kei doesn't take it, just gives him soft pushes towards the inside of his own room, somehow managing to keep it from sliding down Keiji’s shoulders.

“It's okay, it's okay, you can keep it,” he mumbles, tone of voice annoyed at that point, but Keiji just frowns at him.

“Tsukishima-san—,” he gets interrupted, again, and the other rolls in eyes in an exasperated manner before giving him one last push, stronger than the others, that causes Akaashi to finally cross the portal — _?_ — to his room.

“You'll come back anyways right? So you can give it back to me then,” that’s what he says before kicking the door shut, leaving Keiji alone, sweaty, cold and confused. Behind him, another door opens, but this time his mom peeks out, voice no different than usual when she tells him to hurry up if he wants to make it to school on time.

He still feels… Weird. Wrong. Like a broken vase that was just repaired, but doesn’t quite end up looking right. Still, he shakes the feeling off, clears his head, puts tape on those cracks in him. He will leave the existential crisis for later, when he returns to the library and Tsukishima-san.

That’s right. Tetsurou himself said it. Keiji is blessed, he’s different, special, powerful, desired. If someone can do _something_ about this, then it’s gotta be him.

With that thought in mind, he gets ready for the tiring day ahead.

.

.

.

He learns that Tsukishima Kei is nothing but efficient the next time he enters the library, four days after his initial visit, with Tetsurou in tow, and is greeted by the sight of the blond man carrying at least _six_ different books, all from different periods of time, authors and languages, but all, albeit briefly, dealing with the topic they need: Death, and predictions. Once he sets them all down on a table, with Keiji following him, he turns around to properly greet them.

“So you finally found your way here again,” he says as a salute, then turns his calculating gaze towards Tetsurou. “And what are you?” he questions, looking him up and down as if seizing how much trouble he will be. Keiji feels himself standing just a little bit straighter, swallowing hard and glancing at Tetsurou's figure from the corner of his eye.

“Demon,” Kuroo says nonchalantly, one of his hand on his hip in that particular way of his that causes you to just _know_ he doesn't respect you one bit. Tetsurou's wearing a sharp smirk, gaze focused on Kei with intensity, expecting a challenge, ready to fight back in case anything happens. Sometimes he is a little bit _too_ proud of what he is, not that Keiji would have liked him if he were scared of admitting his race, but he often seems to forget that _everyone_ has been a victim of demon attacks, or know someone that has been.

First things first. Tsukishima looks about done with them, ready to kick them out into the atmosphere, and he opens his mouth with a worrying frown in his face. Akaashi, too, hurries to explain.

“Akaashi-san—,” he interrupts him, both hands raised in the air as a sign of peace while he steps on Kuroo's feet with strength. Kuroo gasps, but Akaashi knows that he didn't actually get hurt at all by him; he has some weird pain tolerance and also his body is naturally strong. So, to deal with the matter at hand, which is Tsukishima about to exorcise Kuroo and send Akaashi to jail, or worse:

“A _tamed_ demon. I'm sure you've heard of Nekoma?” Keiji corrects Tetsurou hurriedly, biting his bottom lip anxiously after while Kei just stares, until finally he sighs, nodding with annoyance tainting his figure. He's either very easy to annoy, or Keiji is just _that_ annoying and he is only realizing it now. Still, he allows himself to sigh in relief, hunching over as he hears his demon companion cackle behind him. He swallows before speaking again. “Are these books what you found on, uhm, you know...” he hesitates before naming it. They still don't know exactly _what_ he is, and how he manages to control or at least influence death and fate the way he does.

Still, Kei nods, before pointing the way he came from while startling to slowly shuffle towards it.

“There are more books, actually...” he sounds and seems _incredibly_ awkward and uncomfortable, for some reason. Akaashi blinks slowly a few times.

“Sure…?” he's not exactly sure _what_ he's agreeing to, but Tsukishima just nods before turning around and walking back to the gigantic bookshelves in the library. Kuroo hums a little tune next to him, and Keiji knows he just did something, but, before he can slap him in the back of his head or something, Tetsurou runs behind Kei at a somewhat slow speed for a demon.

Keiji does not bother trying to catch up. Tetsurou would just drop him in the Pacific Ocean or something, he's just _that_ powerful and stupid. He just sighs, sitting down at the table and hoping the other two won't kill each other. Demons do have a particular effect on most creatures, and it mostly is something resembling fear, so that's probably what had Kei so on edge before he ran off.

He grabs the book on top of the others, fingers grazing the title on top of the hard cover, painted there with a shiny gold kept in extremely good conditions through time with magic. It smells, too, of it, and Keiji finds himself opening it and leaning down to softly sniff at it before focusing on reading.

The ocean, freedom, alcohol. Whoever enchanted the thing must have been a lonely sailor or a very happy pirate. Either way, doesn't change the fact that this book, _Diary of Death_ , even if it’s more of a novel than an actual enciclopedic book, might contain some answers to his questions. Kei and Tetsurou make their way back, quietly bickering with each other and both carrying more books— of course, Keiji shouldn’t be surprised that this place holds so much knowledge. He spares them both a look when they sit down, to make sure they aren’t actually going to kill each other, and then starts reading the novel.

Of course, in the end, it doesn't really help. It was a pretty interesting lecture, though, Keiji won't deny that, but not what he needed. Tetsurou looks up from his own book, which is actually a romance novel from God-knows-when, because of course he would only tag along with him to make him suffer —he doesn’t know that Kuroo enchanted the cover, and is doing his part on researching for Akaashi—, and grins in his direction before tossing him another one. Keiji catches it, raising one eyebrow, and Kei glares at the demon for treating his precious books with such carelessness.

“This isn’t about— this is about spells?” he murmurs, bringing the attention of the blond back to himself. Tsukishima clears his throat, sitting slightly more straighter before speaking.

“Yes, I figured that you should be prepared in case something happens,” and, for all that he made himself bigger to talk, he ends up mumbling and averting his gaze.

“Huh?”

“You said that you-know-who got attacked by a demon, right? So this is just precaution,” Tetsurou explains with some slight movements of his hand, not really meaning anything. Keiji nods a few times, eyes looking down at the book then at them, before he takes a deep breath.

“I suppose you’re right. Thank you for thinking ahead, Tsukishima-san,” Kuroo snickers behind his hand, and the blond nods a few times before going back to his own book, mumbling some words Akaashi doesn’t quite catch, but assumes are something along the lines of ‘ _you’re welcome_ ’. He clears his throat, and then opens the book on the first page.

It has already been translated, so he doesn’t have to worry about that. Even if some of the words are hard to understand or the quotes don’t make much sense, he tries and in the end gets it. He has to, even if it’s a bother and stressing. He has to, for Koutarou, because he involved him in this and now has to find a way to get him out in one piece, as hard as it is.

His face is determined, _he_ is determined to get this over with, and so he focuses on the pages, long, yellow, old pages covered all over with lettering and strange symbols he carves into his brain, and by the time he’s over studying, the sun has set, and Tetsurou is waiting for him to finish so he can walk him home.

 _Yes, this will work_ , he thinks.

 _It has to_.

.

.

.

The night sky drapes over them like a cover, and Keiji snuggles up to Koutarou’s arm to steal some of his body warmth as they walk through the streets, passing countless stalls. The festival this year is more lively than ever, and families surround every corner, making Keiji feel soft, cheerful, as his hand meets Koutarou’s. The older man flinches, blushing up to his ears and down to his neck before gripping his back with as much, if not more, force.

They have been careful these past weeks, _they_ being him, Kei and Tetsurou, as they kept doing their research on Akaashi. It wasn’t fruitful— at most, they found out that he wasn’t the only kid ever to have light cursing through their veins like lighting through the sky during a storm, but if anything these people had always kept to themselves and all there was about them was rumours, myths, nothing that they could seriously, one hundred percent believe.

It was better than nothing, anyways. If anything, they found out that while he was still mostly a human, he could perform simple but effective magic against, essentially, demons only, which came in handy considering the fact that it was a _demon_ what killed Bokuto. But, because nothing ever goes right in his life, Akaashi, even after so many days of reading and practicing and missing hours of sleep, just couldn't get the handle of the spells. Magic ran through him, marking his every movement, ruining his life, exposing him forever, but didn't work for him, only allowed him to make small enchantments. It stayed inside, not exposing itself to the world, cursing him forever, never serving in his aid.

He swallows the lump in his throat, hand tightening its grasp on Koutarou's for a split second before calming down. He turns his head to the side, breathing in the scent of him just to remind himself that _it's fine, he's still here, he's not dead._ He hasn't mentioned the entire dream to anyone, not yet and he planned to never do so anyways, so they were safe. _He_ was safe.

Koutarou shivers against him, dark blush covering the entirety of his face, before he looks down at Keiji with half-lidded eyes.

“What're you doing, Akaashi,” Bokuto mumbles with trembling lips, swallowing hard as he fights with the blood rushing to his face and, quite shamefully, to his groin. “It's embarrassing, stop that,” comes next, in the form of a whine, but Keiji only chuckles before burying his nose against Koutarou's neck.

“You actually smell quite good, Bokuto-san,” he finds himself whispering, the puff of hot breath making the older man suck in a breath, aroused. “Like summer...” he adds, closing his eyes and just staying there, breathing in on that soft scent, anchoring himself, calming down.

One of the basic rules when dealing with demons is, after all, _stay calm_.

“Enough— enough already, 'Kaashi!” he’s softly pushed away with one hand while Koutarou clears his throat, trying to put some distance in between them but still holding onto his hand. It makes Keiji smile, soft, appreciated. Loved. Kou turns around with wide eyes and a trembling grin, tugging on his arm once he’s fully recovered from his earlier panicking. “Now, let’s go see what this place has to offer,” he properly intertwines their fingers this time, bringing Keiji closer to him as they keep wandering the place.

And it’s— okay. More than okay, actually, because for all that he had his fears and doubts about going out with Bokuto, Akaashi finds himself enjoying this— this _date_ much more than he thought he would. Keiji finds himself drawn to Koutarou like a moth is to a lamp, incapable of not keeping his attention on him for more than a few minutes, because Koutarou is just _like that_ , loud, eye-catching, intense, passionate. You walk to where he walks, you stare wherever he stares, and you laugh when he laughs. He is prideful and confident and people like Keiji can’t help but follow, can’t help but leech off that energy in hopes it will transmit to him.

He wants to bury his nose in his hair and just breathe in for the rest of his life. Born a Ō Tengu, he’s powerful without trying, intimidating, a natural leader. Akaashi, more sensitive to magic ever since Kei took it upon himself to teach him conjuring, can feel his magic, his feathers hiding under those layers of clothes —few are peeking out from under his collar, they must be in a disarray— and he wants nothing more than to reach out and feel them, preen him.

But that would be disrespectful.

He breathes out, brings their joined hands up to his face and leaves a soft kiss on Bokuto’s, who immediately flinches, bashful and cute.

“You’re being too romantic, ‘Kaashi,” he complains, bringing their hands up to his lips now to give Keiji’s a kiss. He can’t help the gentle, affectionate look that crosses his face as he moves to caress Koutarou’s cheek with his free hand.

“I can stop if this makes you uncomfortable,” he proposes, a flash of insecurity making itself known. Maybe he was being too pushy, too cligny too soon. Koutarou quickly rebutted, nervously moving his arm around and struggling to talk,

“Gah— no!” he almost yells, giving Keiji’s hand a squeeze. “Just give me a warning next time,” is what he says instead, and of course. Koutarou is prideful and confident, and doesn’t like being out of his element, he should have thought about that before panicking.

Just as he’s about to add something else to the conversation, movement on the corner of his eye catches his attention, and Akaashi tears his gaze apart from Bokuto to check what was happening.

A sight, truly.

At first, if one were to cast a simple glance around without the intention of _finding_ something, then it would be unnoticeable. But Keiji isn’t just looking around, he’s searching. And the stalls all look fine, the lights are still iluminating the place a soft orange, the music is still giving it all a nice, calm, romantic ambience. And still, somewhere inbetween stalls and balloons and people walking, something is wrong. It doesn’t take much longer than that to notice the weird, wrong, warphed shadow hiding under a small child.

His grip on his date tightens. Koutarou seems to be able to feel the wrongness in the air, and doesn’t question much apart from a slight crease of his eyebrows when Keiji starts pulling him down the street with speed, trying to get away from the _thing_ lurking behind them. But he already made a mistake.

_Don’t look down, don’t look behind you, don’t pay close attention to them, but do to your surroundings._

He bites his lip, and Koutarou holds his hand with as much, if not more, strenght, before breaking out in a run towards the end of the street, where it’s dark apart from the dim light casted by tall and old streetlights.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, one arm around Keiji’s waist to hold him close under the artificial lights.

“We need to go, I— I’ll explain it to you when we’re far from here,” he whispers, but still his throat feels too raw, too dry, as if he had been screaming for hours on end. Keiji looks around frantically, clutching at Koutarou’s t-shirt with fright, and the older frowns, glancing in the direction of the festival before turning towards the other, more sure of himself than ever.

“Can you run?” at Akaashi’s nod, he smiles, wild and frantic and nothing unlike when they’re playing a particularly hard match against Nekoma. It makes him feel calmer, somehow. As if they were standing in the middle of the court, the whole world watching them, and not in a empty, cold street. “Let’s go, then,” with that, he starts pulling him along at a treacherous pace.

But Keiji has always been by his side, even when he was a first year, keeping up and running miles with him, even when his lungs screamed for air and his throat burned and he wanted to throw up. He was always there, with Koutarou, and this time would not turn into the first time he gave up on him. So Keiji runs, and struggles and coughs and feels like screaming, but doesn’t stop running. Next to Koutarou, he’s invincible, he’s not himself anymore, and they’re the protagonists of the world.

They stop.

Koutarou drags him until they’re standing in front of a house, then slides open the window next to the door, takes a pair of keys, and lets himself in, with Keiji in tow. “This is my house,” he assures him, “we have a bunch of protection stuff here, it should keep whatever that thing was out,” and Keiji allows himself a deep sigh of relief, allows himself to hunch over and let the burn behind his eyes out.

He’s so tired.

His arms come up and he cleans his eyes before the tears even feel the outside air, but he’s sure Koutarou must have noticed it already. He’s pulled upwards and into a crushing hug, and he lets himself be calmed down by the feeling of another warm, very much alive body next to his, holding him close so he doesn’t fall apart.

A beat, then Bokuto slowly parts, just enough to see his face, keeps his arms still pressed against Akaashi in a comforting touch.

“What was that thing, ‘Kaashi?” he sounds unsure of himself, so very much _not_ like the Bokuto he knows, and it makes him want to claw his hair out in distress. Still, he swallows around the almost permanent now lump in his throat to answer, wracking his brain for a logical answer.

“I… Think it was a demon,” because he wasn’t sure. He got the same distinct feeling that was present in his dream, the coldness running through his veins, numbing his senses, the white pain in his head, the churning of his stomach. It was all there, but demons don’t usually hide themselves in shadows.

Demons _don’t_ hide. They attack at once, causing commotions and fear and pain and death, unless they’re tamed, like Kuroo. But a humanized demon wouldn’t make Keiji this paranoid, this frightened, and he’s sure it’s the same with Koutarou.

This was _more_ than just _a demon_.

Behind them, the door rattles in place, as if something— someone had collided against it. They both flinch, Keiji turning to stare at the entrance with wide eyes before Koutarou, once again, moves deeper into the house, pulling him along.

“It’s okay, I told you, we have— spells and stuff here, it won’t get in,” the older says, but it sounds like he’s reassuring himself as much as he’s reassuring Keiji, and _fuck_ , it must be serious if he’s getting jittery like this. Keiji knows Koutarou is more sensitive to magic and problems than he is, able to predict a storm coming, his feathers warning him when a catastrophe is coming.

He wonders if this, getting chased by a demon, the smell of death already present, counts as a catastrophe. It does for Keiji. It surely does for Koutarou. One of his hands comes up to softly pet Bokuto’s back, where he knows wings are growing. He can feel his feathers, a lot of them, like another layer of clothes, and makes sure to press his fingers along them, caressing him. Koutarou shifts in place, then sighs, and turn around to press Keiji against himself once again, this time burying his nose in Keiji’s neck and he can’t really complain. He did that earlier too, for comfort.

The door falls to the floor with a loud thump, and they both turn to stare down the hallway they’re in towards the living room.

Keiji makes a choice.

He can’t let this happen, he just simply _can’t_ let Koutarou die at the hands of a demon, not when he has such a bright future, not when he has so many things to do, foods to try, music to listen. He makes a choice, and pushes him towards the bedroom to their side, closing the door with a whispered enchantment to keep it closed before running towards the noise. He doesn’t even make it halfway down the corridor before there’s a big, big, scary shadow standing in front of him, blocking his way.

“Why, hello there,” his first instinct is to stand still, hope for the best as he even stops breathing in the face of the pure raw _power_ emanating from that _thing_. “Oh? What’s this?” then there’s a hand on his arm, but as soon as it touches him it pulls away, and the creature hisses in pain, or annoyance, or both.

 _A demon_.

Keiji raises his eyes, staring, and this demon can’t be much taller than him, probably b a few centimeters, but it feels so much bigger. There are so many things happening at once. The smoke coming from the hand used to touch him, Koutarou’s pounding on the door behind him, the glaring eyes on the demon’s face, the headache because of how much he’s struggling to keep the door in place.

“So you’re _that_ kid,” it says, eyes narrowing in distaste as it absentmindedly pats its hand against its clothes, possibly trying to soothe the burns there. Keiji, for once, is glad that he is who he is, that he has Light so deep inside of himself, intertwined with his body so much that he can’t even begin to say where he’s human and where he’s light.

“I am,” he says, and he hopes that his isn’t trembling as much as his body is. Adrenalin, fear. Everything is cursing through him in a weird mix of emotions that has him feeling like he might collapse at any moment. The demon raises an eyebrow, puts its hand against its waist and stares for a few seconds before snorting.

“Why are you protecting the Tengu, kid? Just let me have my snack and then we can both go our own ways,” the demon proposes with a sly smile, both hands coming up in what's supposed to be a peaceful gesture, but Keiji knows better than to try himself by a demon.

It pains him to have these thoughts about the creature in front of him— that he already feels on guard even when the other is being somewhat calm, that he knows not to give in, not to believe. He has such a deep fear of demons, such a raw hate, that it hurts him to think that these thoughts he's having could have been directed to Tetsurou, _have_ been directed. One of his best friends is a demon, but he's calm, he's normal, he would be just like any other human were it not for the horns on his head and the tail protruding from his lower back, and those can still be hidden. But Keiji fears and hates and in this moment feels too much and not enough at the same time.

He breathes in, steels himself. Koutarou is clawing at the door now, voice raw as he calls out for Akaashi, and Keiji can't answer to him, not with it here, not with Death standing in front of him in the shape of a young, beautiful man.

“No,” he answers, serious, short, cold. It's final, he won't bulge, even if his hands have gone numb and he's sure he's breaking too much skin by digging his nails into his palm to ground himself, keep himself focused, keep the enchantment in place.

The demon doesn't seem amused.

“Why not? I’m sure you know as much as I do that Tengu magic is desired amongst _everyone_ , not just demons, not just me,” its tone of voice has changed, from cheerful and somehow provocative —as if it knew something that you don't, as if it was better than you in every way, as if it was being great only by talking to you because you could never compare to it— to annoyed —the voice you use when talking to a stupid kid, but can't be mean directly—, as it discreetly glares at him.

But Keiji catches the glare dead on, and if he dies here, then so be it. At least he will be protecting Koutarou, because by God if this demon kills him then it will die too. So that's his winning card. And demons don't care enough to sacrifice themselves over a grudge like this, most of these creatures are smart; they couldn't be bothered to wake up for World War III. Keiji will make sure that that works for his advantage here.

“No particular reason,” he breathes out, conscious of the narrowing eyes and tilted head, waiting for an answer. His answer.

“Fine, then, but be careful, little Keiji,” it groans, standing straighter with a frown, resigned as if it already knew what hisanswer was going to be. It's that cockyness, the fact that it was right, what makes Keiji want to give another answer, if only to see what expressions the demon would make when caught by surprise. The sharp pain rapidly extending through his body followed by obnoxious numbness is a quick reminder as to why he has to stand strong against this creature. “This won’t be the last time someone chases your little bird,” is the last thing it says, a _warning_ , before giving him a small wave and disappearing. Not live in movies or animes, not in a puff of smoke, more like— one second it was there then the next it was gonna, dissolved in a puddle of shadows.

Keiji allows himself to put a hand against the wall, for support, as his entire self loses strength and crumbles to the ground. A shaky breath. The situation, what just happened, what he did dawns on him, and he closes his eyes to let his head rest against the cool wood of the piece of furniture next to him, letting go of everything, all the magic, all the worries, to calm down properly.

He's so tired.

He doesn't get much resting time, though, before the door to the bedroom he had pushed Koutarou into opens with a _'bang!_ ', hitting the wall with a force that makes him tremble and think that the house itself did too, maybe. Koutarou stands there, under the doorway, hair in a disarray and eyes wide in fear and rage, but mostly fear; Keiji looks back, swallowing around the lump in his throat as he feels it closing in, and he thinks he may be looking kind of wild too, _with fear and rage, but mostly fear._ He just went through a near death experience, and he's sure Koutarou knows that just as much— his feathers are up under his clothes, trying to make him look bigger, more threatening, more powerful.

There's a pause, a moment where they just look at each other, both shaking, then Koutarou surges forward, more like throwing himself at Keiji than walking towards him, but Keiji takes it all in without a complaint. He opens his weak arms to welcome him, and Koutarou gladly fits himself against him, burying his face in that place where Keiji's neck meets his shoulder, then he inhales. Deep, comforting, he smells Keiji— his magic, his perfume, his shampoo, the soap he uses for his clothes. He takes it all in, calming himself down. Keiji's there, breathing, his heart beating as strongly as ever, _alive_ still. Koutarou's tears fall without control, not that he would even try to hold them in, and he has half a mind to feel guilty for wetting and ruining Keiji's sweater, but it doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things.

“Why did you do that,” he cries out, holding even tighter onto Keiji, who lets him. “I thought— I thought you—,” Keiji knows what he thought.

“I'm sorry,” he whispers, voice broken as he tries to hold in his own sobs. He buries his nose in Koutarou's hair and breathes in, the scent of Summer. Not even a million apologies could make up for what he just did to him, but he thinks that maybe, maybe Koutarou will understand him, his motives, his reasons. He knows that he would have done the same thing, that he planned to hide with Keiji in that room until they could no longer escape, and then he would sacrifice himself, in true Tengu fashion —their main job, after all, was to save warriors from catastrophes—, leaving Keiji alive, but alone.

At least, against a demon of that caliber, Keiji had the extra protection of the light inside of him; there was no reassurance for him that Koutarou, while being a powerful Tengu, would come out of that fight safe. He was powerful, magical, but was still developing his own wings. So—

He stops himself before finishing that thought.

All that matter is that they made it out of that, alive, and without much trouble at that.

Slowly, softly, Koutarou removes himself from his arms, just enough so that he can see Keiji’s face, red, blotchy, stained by tears he couldn’t contain. Kou is the same, even worse, with a trail of snot running down his face that —hopefully— didn’t make it to Keiji’s sweater. Still, only with seeing him, Keiji feels overwhelmed with the need to get closer, to become one, to show him how much he loves him.

First, he checks his back pocket for his handkerchief. Then, he carefully cleans Koutarou’s face.

Then.

He leans in for a kiss, and he’s met halfway. It is, at first, nothing more than a soft brush of lips, delicate, just long enough that he can share Koutarou’s breath, feel the warmth of his skin, and the taste of lemonade lingers far after they have separated. Koutarou haves his eyes open when Keiji looks again, and it wouldn't surprise him if the other hadn't dared to close them. He knows that the situation still doesn't quite register correctly— they're alive, both of them. Keiji's head, hands and overall entire body are pained, but he's not physically hurt, it's mostly as if he just ran a marathon while carrying Kenma on his back. It's not good, but it could have been worse.

Koutarou closes in for another kiss this time, and Keiji makes sure to let himself be taken, hugging the other against himself as hard as he can, eliminating any and all space in between them, overwhelmed by all the raw emotion. Maybe time has stopped when his lips met his own, and it certainly felt like it, like they were alone floating in the middle of the universe and not sitting there in the dark, alone, curled against a wall and a wooden piece of furniture. His stomach twists as Koutarou's tongue slips inside of his mouth, tasting him, rediscovering every part of him, and he lets him. He's sure that if he were standing his knees would have already gave in under the weight of his emotions alone.

When they part, Koutarou doesn't shy away like he thought he would. Instead, one of his hands comes up to caress Keiji's face, serious as he stares at him before kissing his forehead in a reassuring, loving manner.

“Don't ever do that again,” he mumbles. “If something like this ever happens again, I'll already have my wings out and ready to protect you,” Keiji smiles, a small, genuine smile, entranced. This is the Koutarou he knows, confident, happy, always ready to get up again.

He used to think such things like emotions, feelings, weren't a necessity, that they were useless, that they only clouded the mind of people, ruined the logical thinking. But _this,_ this feels so different from what he thought falling in love would feel like— it's endless, this feeling, and he doesn't want it to ever end. He wants to thank Koutarou, for making him _feel_ for the first time; wants to hug him and cherish him forever and always let him know how good he is.

He settles for closing his eyes and pressing harder against him.

“I won't, thank you,” he answers, and suddenly he feels like crying all over again, but he holds in it and just leans in again. As always, Koutarou meets him halfway.


End file.
